


The Voice of Rage and Ruin

by IgnobleBard



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/pseuds/IgnobleBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Maglor is living in a small settlement in the woods long after the end of the Third Age when a set of murders threatens to expose his secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voice of Rage and Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Voice of Rage and Ruin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930327) by [Lasgalenth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalenth/pseuds/Lasgalenth)



> Thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for the beta.

Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. - Gandalf

~~****~~

Maglor gazed with wide eyes at the twinkling profusion of stars overhead. His breath came in small, choking gasps, his fingers clawed the grass at his sides. He closed his eyes, half opened, closed them again. His head fell back, his throat bared to the unyielding night. A devious hand snaked over his hip and up his side. Fingernails lightly scratched his ribs and nipple. He shuddered in delight but then a low growl sent shockwaves through him, wringing a helpless cry from his throat. Behind his eyelids stars exploded in a burst of multicolored light.

He threw his arm over his face, panting heavily before raising his head and looking down into Finrod’s roguish gaze. Maglor watched Finrod stalk slowly up his body, a feral gleam in his eyes. His cock half rose as though trying to beckon those magic lips back. Finrod pressed slowly against him as he moved forward, and Maglor felt the sensation of heat and muscle and silken skin envelop him. Finrod paused at Maglor’s neck to plant a domineering love bite before taking his lips in a kiss that lingered pleasantly. Maglor stroked his lover’s golden hair, teasing his tongue into Finrod’s willing mouth.

Maglor snapped awake from the dream, his eyes burning with tears, his heart aching for days long past. The howl of a hunting wolf broke the silence of the early dawn. Maglor realized the sound was what had awakened him. He had a particular antipathy toward the beasts since. . . Now the tears flowed freely. He sat up and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the memories away, memories too painful to endure.

Only in dreams were his memories pure, without sorrow or pain. He craved these dreams, nourished his withered soul with them. Dreams were his only respite in this harsh world. If he could he would lay himself down in the gardens of Lórien and never awaken. Finrod would be ever at his side, and they would be hunting or singing or making love. He considered himself twice a fool. Once for taking the oath, and again for allowing Finrod to fulfill his oath to Barahir, though how he could have stopped the man short of kidnapping him and locking him up he did not know. What did it matter now anyway? It was done, all oaths fulfilled, all the greatness of the Noldor in Middle-earth fading into the mists of time and memory.

Once he had lamented this, to see the glory of their works fall to ruin, the remaining Elves content to linger under the trees, or to put their small boats to sea on a handful of tiny islands to fish and commune with Ulmo in their own way. There was no exploration anymore, nothing of real import for the Elves to turn their hands to, nor was there any impetus for them to do so. Those remaining had no desire for great works, lofty towers or high kings. They were content to live off the land as they had before the arrival of the Exiles, and he was content to live as one of them.

He became aware of the coolness of the air on his sweaty body, rank with hollow passion. Rising, he lit the fire and put on a pot of water to heat. A nice hot bath would be welcome on what promised to be a chilly autumn day. He would have to check for the wolf’s tracks and perhaps hunt the beast. It was far too close to the settlement and they could ill afford to lose any livestock with winter looming.

Maglor bathed and dressed in the simple homespun garments he made himself. He could have bartered for clothing with those more proficient in the art but he liked being as self-sufficient as possible. Though not initially skilled in multiple disciplines like some of his brothers, he had found there were few devices he could not master with a bit of practice. This aided him a great deal as he rarely stayed in any one place for long. The settlements where he occasionally made his home, when the need for human contact forced him to tarry, usually welcomed any laborer or craftsman. He had found the ability to perform a variety of tasks eased the natural suspicion the arrival of a stranger always brought.

He put on a cloak and left his hut, casting about for the wolf’s tracks, finding them easily enough. They came from the direction of the village, paused beneath his window then continued on, disappearing into the trees of the surrounding wood. Perhaps it had been just passing through but Maglor had an ill feeling all the same. A wolf without fear was a dangerous animal indeed.

The first thin rays of dawn crept through the trees into the clearing. Already the nights were longer and colder as autumn waned. A chill breeze blew from the north, turning his cheeks pink as he walked.

He headed for the market with a bag of wool he intended to barter for some fresh vegetables. His garden was bare and he had put aside few stores for the winter, still undecided if he was going to stay until spring. He had to resolve the dilemma before the weather made his decision for him, but put his worries aside for the moment. The day was too beautiful to spoil with such thoughts.

Walking in the bracing air cleared his head and on impulse he turned toward Galathwen’s cottage. He stood outside her door admiring the flower boxes at her windows, still lush with flowers. No need to go to the market when she was just as likely to have what he was looking for. She was the best gardener in the settlement. Why, she could ‘coax a stone to sprout’ as the locals liked to say. She grew much more than she could use and took the rest to market. He was taking a chance visiting so early because she might be gone already, but it wasn’t really out of his way, and a woman alone could always use a little company. At least that’s what he told himself. The truth was it was he who could use some cheering up.

He knocked on her door. She answered after a moment, her face brightening to see it was him.

“Daelir, how good to see you. Won’t you come in?” she said in her melodious voice.

She was a comely woman of Telerin and Noldorin descent with thick dark hair that hung to her waist when it was down, though she most often wore it pinned up, and eyes the grey of a dove’s breast. Maglor sensed a tragic past, he had grown adept at that, but he would never consider asking. Though they had known each other for almost two years, and he considered her a good friend, he knew little about her personally and she knew as little of him. The remaining Elves did not question each other much about the past, for which he was grateful.

“Gladly, my dear,” he replied. “How are you this fine morning?”

“I couldn’t be better. I was just preparing to make some jam. Now that the weather has turned cool it’s the perfect time, and winter is just around the corner.”

“It is indeed, which is why I stopped by. My own garden is depleted and I was hoping to make a trade, but I fear I’ve caught you at a bad time.” Maglor saw the steam from the pot rising on the stove.

“Not at all. We can chat while the first batch boils. What did you bring to trade?”

“I don’t know if you can use it, but I have quite a bit of wool left over from the spring shearing.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful! I need wool for a new cloak. My old one is quite threadbare. You can take anything you need in return. I have quite a store set aside, which is why I haven’t been to the market the past few days. I’m going to put up all that’s left for trade later.”

“Perhaps in exchange for helping you I could also have a jar of that jam?”

“You can have as many as you like, with or without the help, though the help would certainly be welcome.”

Maglor saw the shine in her eyes, an echo of the trees, and noted how she leaned slightly toward him as she spoke. She was flirting again. He was both touched and saddened by this, though he wasn’t even certain if she wanted more than his gallant attention. It was wicked of him to encourage her but he could not bring himself to discourage her either. The truth was she was the reason he had lingered here and the reason he was now hesitant to move on. With her he felt less lonely than he had in a very long time.

He smiled in return and followed her to the kitchen where bowls of ripe fruit were laid out. He began to prepare the fruit while she took the jars off the stove. Soon they were bantering and laughing. They were just finishing up with the elderberries and were starting on the blackberries when someone pounded on the door.

She went to answer it and Maglor stayed back by the table, lining up the newly sealed jars.

Galathwen wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door. It was Lebednel, the fletcher, and he was clearly agitated. “Two of Hinnith’s sheep were killed last night, by a wolf from the look of it. The council has called a meeting tonight to put together a hunting party. Until then you might want to stay indoors.”

Galathwen went pale. She took a step back, her hand going to her throat. “Are they certain it was. . .? I mean, how can they be sure?”

Lebednel looked down and shuffled his feet. “I would rather not say. It is not fit for a lady.”

Maglor sighed and stepped forward. Galathwen was visibly upset and he wanted to get the story.

“Mae Govannen, Lebednel,” he said. “Perhaps you could tell us what happened. I saw a wolf’s tracks outside my cottage this morning. I know I should have alerted the council but was unaware of the damage. We must take swift action to prevent more loss.”

“Indeed we must. Hinnith discovered the kills this morning when he went to pasture the flock. The beast had gotten into the paddock somehow and savaged them. He could not tell how it happened. The wall is high and his dogs are always on guard. He could not find the dogs at first light but they came slinking back a short while later with their tails between their legs, whimpering. Something put a scare in them. They didn’t even bark a warning.”

“How odd,” Maglor said. The sense of unease crept over him again. He turned to Galathwen who looked to be on the verge of fainting.

“I will come to the meeting, but the lady is distressed and should not hear more. Thank you for spreading the word.”

“Forgive me for upsetting you, Galathwen.” He turned to Maglor. “I will see you there, Daelir. Thank you for coming.” Then, with a last sympathetic glance at Galathwen, he departed.

When he had left, Maglor helped Galathwen to a chair and went to fix her a cup of peppermint tea. “What’s wrong? Certainly the news is troubling but you look as though you have seen Bannoth.”

“Perhaps I have,” she said, her eyes far away. She shook herself and looked up at him with a nervous smile. “You’re right, Daelir. I’m being silly. It’s just that there hasn’t been a wolf sighting near the settlement in many years.”

“And there is nothing else?” He laid a kind hand on her arm.

She looked at him, deeply into his eyes, weighing some secret thought. She glanced down and clasped his hand like a lifeline. “Not now, Daelir. Once the wolf is dead I will tell you, but not now. I can’t.”

“Don’t worry, my lady. I will not press you.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“My lady,” she repeated, her eyes filling with tears. “If only. . . Forgive me, Daelir. I am spooked by shadows today.” She wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Let me get you the jam I promised.”

Maglor had to hold his tongue as she bustled around, full of nervous energy, gathering everything within reach and handing him jar after jar of jam until his arms were all but overflowing.

“Galathwen, this is too much. . .” he began.

“No, please, let me do this for you, my dear Daelir,” she insisted. “Please, it is much more than I need, and now you must go.”

She hustled him out and closed the door quickly, their visit clearly over.

Maglor was not sure what to think. Galathwen did have secrets after all, perhaps dark ones. He and Galathwen had spent many happy hours together since he had arrived here and it broke his heart that darkness had ever touched her. Her cheery personality, radiant smile, and gentle, generous spirit touched him in ways he thought no longer possible.

Forced from a rough lean-to on the seashore by Ulmo’s incessant call and the pain of unendurable memory, he had wandered Arda for half an age. Chance had brought him to this small settlement. He had not planned to stay yet he had, and he had been happy here, had found a measure of peace, but he would never know peace. He did not deserve it and he did not want it. Now he had let his guard down, grown to care for someone, and his whole world might be on the verge of collapse.

He returned to his cottage and stowed his treasures then took up his bow and went outside to study the tracks he had found. The wolf was large but there was only one set of tracks so it was unlikely there was a pack to contend with, though it was unusual for one wolf to kill two sheep in one night. He followed the paw prints into the woods for a short way to see what direction it was heading then turned back to the settlement. The trail was clear so it should not be difficult to find the lair. The trick was to get there before the moon rose and the wolf left to hunt again.

Maglor went to the heart of the settlement to find a group of men and women already milling about talking of the wolf. Hinnith said he would be keeping watch over his flock all night in case the wolf returned. Celebior, the silversmith, was saying he would be willing to volunteer for a hunting party.

Mithdor, the hunter, said he was not a good enough shot and that a smaller party would be best.

“I suggest a party of no more than three or four,” he said. “A lot of people tramping around in the woods will drive it to ground, perhaps for days or weeks, but will not eliminate the threat.”

“Mithdor is right,” Silivor, the baker said. “He is the best bowman in the province, and an excellent tracker as well. His aim is uncanny, and I have seen him track deer when all others lost the trail.”

“Thank you for your confidence in my skill,” Mithdor said. “I will do my best, but a wolf is not as easy to take as a deer.” He saw Maglor approaching and called out, “Now, Daelir here is an excellent hunter. Did he not feed half the settlement on the venison he shared last winter? If he is willing, I would have him accompany me.”

“Here I come to offer my services in hunting the wolf and find my friend Mithdor has volunteered me already,” Maglor joked. He addressed the council. “I saw the tracks outside my window this morning. The wolf is large, but I believe it to be a loner.”

“You saw tracks at your place?” Telieniel, the weaver, said with a shudder. “It is terrifying to think it is sniffing around our houses.”

“Obviously it does not fear human dwellings,” Maglor said. “That is very disturbing. From the look of the tracks, the beast came into the settlement from the north side and exited just past my cottage to the south.”

“I saw the trail as well,” Mithdor said. “I think the party should split up. One group can take the north trail and backtrack while the other takes the trail to the south. My hope is to find the lair before it comes out to hunt at moonrise.”

“Then two to the north and two to the south,” Lebednel said. “I will volunteer to join the hunt.”

“And I,” said Gaerion, the tanner. “I would like to have the pelt unless one of the other hunters wants to lay claim. In that case I will make a handsome trade for it.”

“You are welcome to it, for my part,” Mithdor said. “I have no desire for such a trophy.”

“No trophy for me either,” Gaerion said. “I intend to make good use of it this winter. A wolf hide makes a warm blanket.”

“Warmer than me?” his wife said with a wicked grin.

Gaerion grinned and hugged her around her waist. “Especially warm when it’s big enough to share.”

Everyone chuckled at this. Gaerion and his wife were the heart of the settlement, a sort of matriarch and patriarch of their little community. They had been living here at the end of the Third Age when other wandering Elves began to filter in and build their homes here. Maglor could not imagine this place without them.

He and Mithdor left Lebednel and Gaerion to take the north trail while they went south. Maglor could not help notice Galathwen’s absence at the council and was troubled by it. He wondered how she was faring.

He told Mithdor about their conversation earlier. Mithdor was one of the few he trusted with personal matters, though he trusted him with few. The hunter had come to the settlement last fall from Eryn Lasgalen before the first snows fell and quickly became essential for his hunting prowess and generosity. He often supplied the market with meat he took no trade for, saying he had everything he needed. While not as solitary as Maglor, he did not always attend the council meetings and seemed close with only Gaerion and his wife.

Maglor had been hunting with him a few times. There was plenty of time for conversation during the hunt and on one occasion Mithdor shared that he had been living with Thranduil’s people. He had grown restless having lived in the Greenwood for most of the Third age and had gone wandering. Mithdor claimed a Sindarin heritage but Maglor thought he detected a bit of Noldorin ancestry as well. He was tall, stalwart, and clever with dark hair he always wore in a single braid down his back. His face reflected the beauty of a Noldorin noble except for his eyes, which were hooded by heavy dark brows. His eyes were also unusual in that one was grey and the other blue. He had a scar on his neck that Maglor romanticized as due to a run in with a jealous husband, though he knew the more likely reason was an angry beast.

“I did not understand why Galathwen was so frightened,” he said to Mithdor, “and she wouldn’t tell me. She said she would when the wolf was killed.”

“Her behavior is strange. Wolves rarely hunt people, and then only when they enter their territory. I guess you will find out tomorrow when we bring the carcass in,” Mithdor said.

“I hope so. Now how do you suggest we proceed?”

“How are you at tracking?”

“Probably not as good as you.” Maglor thought of hunting trips in his youth. Celegorm, of course, had been the tracker, trained by Oromë no less. True, he had more experience now by far than he did then. “The tracks were quite plain. It will be more difficult in the forest but as long as the light is with us I should be fine.”

“Then follow my lead,” Mithdor said with a shrug. “If we find the lair, we’ll keep watch until the wolf emerges. Just remember to take a shot only if you are certain of a kill. A wounded wolf is not something you want to tangle with.”

“I have hunted wolf in my youth, which is to say it’s been a long time. I hope my skills haven’t deserted me.”

They entered the wood, easily following the tracks in the soft earth, Mithdor in the lead and Maglor a slight distance behind. The late afternoon sun dappled the forest floor with a rich gold and Maglor could not help but feel cheerful in the embrace of the forest. He remembered his youthful hunting trips with his brothers and cousins where the goal was more about enjoying the company rather than bringing home a kill. Of course his favorite memories were of the times he spent with Finrod. He put those memories from his mind for the moment to focus on the task at hand.

They had no trouble finding the tracks at first and both stalked silently along as the dusk deepened around them. Then, suddenly, the trail simply disappeared. They both cast about for a time trying to pick it up, a disturbance in the carpet of leaves on the forest floor, a bent twig or hairs on the undergrowth, but no sign could they find.

“How could the trail grow cold so fast?” Maglor asked. “A wolf can’t simply vanish.”

“I don’t know, but we had better split up and see if we can pick up the trail again. Its lair cannot be far from the settlement.”

“If either of us finds it, we will let the other know with a bird call.”

“What bird?”

“Can you do a nightingale?” Maglor asked.

Mithdor just smiled and gave an uncannily accurate rendition. Maglor could not follow a performance like that but his call was a passable imitation.

“And what if we don’t find the trail in, say, an hour?” Mithdor asked.

“Then we will meet again right here beneath this oak to make another plan.”

They split up and Maglor scanned every inch of every leaf and fern, stone and bush his eyes encountered. He found nothing. He was just about to give up when a blinding pain behind his eyes caught him off guard and he fell to his knees, dropping his bow and clutching his head. A scream of agony and terror ripped at his mind such as he had never felt before. He knelt helpless for many long minutes then bent over and retched onto the roots of a tree.

Dazed, he took up his bow and got slowly to his feet, the throbbing in his head threatening to make him gag. He stumbled back to the meeting place, leaning against the sturdy oak for support just as Mithdor was returning.

“I couldn’t find a thing. . .” he began, then saw the state Maglor was in. He hurried over and put Maglor’s arm around his shoulder to support him. “What happened to you, Daelir? You look ill.”

“Someone tore into my thoughts. It has been a long time since I’ve encountered anyone with the ability to project their thoughts, let alone so intensely. Whoever it was, their pain was so strong it was like being struck by a falling stone. I could feel every thought and emotion. . .

"Galathwen!” He pushed away from the tree and Mithdor, stumbling through the wood. He picked up speed when he cleared the trees, running full out, sick with dread.

Mithdor ran after him, pleading for an explanation all the way but getting none. Maglor raced to Galathwen’s door to find it standing open. He hesitated and that’s when Mithdor caught up with him.

“Daelir, what is it? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Ignoring him, Maglor entered the cottage slowly, like a sleepwalker, and saw Galathwen lying next to the kitchen table. Shaking, he went closer, almost retching again at the sight before him.

Galathwen was lying on the floor with her throat torn out amongst a profusion of broken jam jars, her sightless eyes filled with terror.

Maglor took a step back, his hand to his mouth as Mithdor came up beside him. “Belain be cursed!” he said when he took in the mess. He put a hand on Maglor’s shoulder and helped him to a chair.

“How could this have happened?” Maglor said. “Who could have done this?”

“I don’t know, Daelir. It is horrible. We must warn the council at once.”

“Will you see to it? I would like to stay with her.”

“Are you sure. . .”

“Yes, I will wait for the council before I clean up but I can’t just leave her lying here with no one. . .” He broke off, his eyes filling with tears.

Mithdor patted him on the back and left. Maglor sat deep in thought, replaying their conversation from earlier in the day. She had been so frightened at the thought of the wolf and would not say why. What had she been hiding?

He worked up the courage to go examine the body. Her throat was ripped open and the blood was already starting to congeal. The edges of the wound showed the clean lacerations of sharp teeth. His mind reeled at the thought that while he and Mithdor were out hunting, their prey had come back into the settlement and savaged Galathwen. But then why had her door been open? Surely a wolf did not open the door. And why would she open her door at night when she was so frightened?

What was the secret she had refused to tell him? Now he would never know.

He felt guilty for doing it but looked around her cottage for clues. Near the sleeping area he found a small box and a few books. The box contained only a few pieces of cheap jewelry, a promise stone, and an eagle feather. He picked up one of the books and a letter fluttered to the floor. He looked around to make sure he was alone then opened the letter and scanned it. A love letter from a suitor, very old, lovingly preserved. The writer talked of rebellion against the Valar, of leaving Aman and defying his father to follow the Fëanorians, of undying love for a maiden named Móriel. Maglor put the letter back and was still piecing together its meaning when the council arrived.

They entered with weapons drawn, grim and silent. Elves in hunting mode. They took in the sight of Galathwen’s body and registered the shock and horror Maglor was just beginning to sort out in his own mind.

“What could have done this?” Celebrior said. “A wolf?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Lebednel said, bending down for a better look. He and Gaerion had returned earlier when they lost the trail, just as Maglor and Mithdor had.

“Perhaps orcs have returned to the woods,” Gaerion said. He was pale and appeared as shaky as Maglor felt.

“There have been no orcs in the north for eight hundred years,” Silivor scoffed. “If orcs were lurking anywhere about, we’d have spotted them. There is no missing those foul creatures.”

“Why would Galathwen be targeted? It doesn’t make sense,” Celebrior said.

“When I mentioned the wolf today, she fell apart,” Lebednel said. “I think she knew this was going to happen. Daelir saw it too.”

Maglor cursed under his breath. Lebednel would have to bring that up in front of the council. He had to respond but tried to keep it neutral. “Yes, the news upset her, but she wouldn’t tell me why. It was almost like she’d had a premonition.”

“We won’t solve the mystery tonight. Let’s take care of the body and spread the word about the attack so folks can take precautions,” Mithdor said.

When Gaerion and the others went to prepare Galathwen for transport, Maglor, on impulse, removed the letter from the book and slipped it into his pocket. Then he went to help.

It was a horrid business but they saw to Galathwen, removing her on a litter to Gaerion’s house, to be buried in the morning. Maglor helped carry her, his heart as heavy as her body was light. When the council split up, Mithdor lingered to speak with Maglor.

“I did not mention what happened to you in the woods,” he said. “I hope I did the right thing.”

“I am grateful that you didn’t,” Maglor said. “I couldn’t face a lot of questions tonight.”

“There are few Elves left with the ability to project their thoughts and few with the ability to receive them. I know it is an unspoken rule that we not bring up the past, but if you ever need to talk. . . That is, if you have anything you need to get off your chest that you do not want repeated, well, I can lend a discreet ear, that’s all.”

“Thank you, Mithdor. Perhaps one day I will take you up on that.”

Maglor returned to his cabin, his mind in turmoil. The moon had risen, full and round above the trees. A hunter’s moon. He undressed, sitting on the edge of the bed with the letter in his hand. He read it again. The name of the suitor stirred a vague memory but it fled as quickly as it came, crowded out by memories and everlasting remorse for his own terrible deeds.

So many mistakes, so many missed opportunities. There was a time when he actually thought he and his brothers could defeat Morgoth and carve a home for themselves from these beautiful untamed lands. For him the oath had never been about the Silmarils, it had been about freedom, it had been about Finrod. Finrod, who he had promptly abandoned, albeit unwittingly, at Alqualondë. Finrod, who he had not followed to Nargothrond, though he had wanted to, at the insistence of Maedhros and his own sense of responsibility to the oath. Things would have been different if he had followed his heart. At least he believed that they would have.

He wept, as he had so many times, over the past, and cared not for the future. If he had the courage of Maedhros he would have ended it all long ago. Yet cowardice was not the only reason keeping him alive. Someone must own the oath, bear the unforgiven sins, remain as a sacrifice in Middle-earth until the world’s end to give Finrod the chance for a blessed life in Aman, far away from his tainted soul.

In the end, he tumbled into bed as he did every night, exhausted, paralyzed in mind and body, falling into an almost instant, deep sleep.

He and Fingon were hunting in the forest surrounding Himring in a misty autumn dawn. He was telling Fingon how much he missed Finrod and how he despaired of ever seeing him again. Suddenly, a huge wolf leapt from behind a tree going for Fingon’s throat. Maglor was fumbling with his bow, trying to nock an arrow with shaking hands, when Finrod appeared out of the mist and met the wolf in mid-leap. They rolled and grappled on the ground, Finrod with his hands around the wolf’s throat. He and Fingon watched in silent horror as Finrod tore into the wolf’s neck with his teeth, killing the beast. Maglor ran to Finrod who lay on the ground, still as death, with a bleeding neck wound.

He was lamenting over Finrod’s body but when he looked down there was only the wolf, shot through with three arrows. A hand rested on his shoulder and he looked up to see Finrod standing behind him, his golden hair radiant in the rising sun.

He stood and clasped Finrod to him in a big bear hug. “Oh, sweet Eru, you’re here. I thought I’d lost you!” he cried.

“You never lost me,” Finrod said, “and you never will. I did it all for you.”

“Did what?” Maglor said.

Finrod kissed him and now they were in his lover’s bed in Nargothrond. Maglor was undressing him after a formal dinner, slowly unlacing the gold brocade ties on his blue velvet jacket while Finrod chuckled at his careful attentions.

“You’re unwrapping me like a fragile piece of glassware,” Finrod said with a barking laugh. “Get on with it already!”

“I want to make this last. I want this, us, to last forever.”

“Can’t we just think about Námo while we’re doing it?” Finrod teased.

Maglor laughed. “You can if you want, I’ll only be thinking of you.” He sped up the pace and soon had Finrod laid bare before him. He took a moment to savor his remarkable beauty, golden hair, and bright blue eyes that regarded him with heartening love and trust. Maglor tangled his fingers in Finrod’s hair and pulled him into a kiss. Finrod turned it into a competition for dominance that ended with Finrod on top, giving him a devious smile as he sank down on Maglor’s cock. Maglor moaned, raising his hips into glorious heat.

For the first time in over a hundred years Maglor completed himself within his golden lover in his dream. Then afterward they lay together and talked, simply talked like they used to, of court gossip, books, music, and a million tiny things of no import at all. Finally Maglor asked something that had been on his mind for half an Age. “Are you happy in Aman, Findaráto?”

“I never returned to Aman,” Finrod said. “I could never go without you.”

Maglor had no time to puzzle over this. His eyes opened to the first rays of dawn slanting through the window. He sat up and threw the covers aside, feeling clear and refreshed. He was bewildered by the dream but not troubled by it. In fact, it felt like the way things were meant to be. Then the events of the night before crowded in and his heart broke again for Galathwen. He would have to go see about the burial and perhaps face many questions.

When he arrived at Gaerion’s house he found the council and almost everyone in the settlement there to pay their respects. The grave had already been dug in a forest clearing where Galathwen had always liked to tarry when out picking berries. He helped carry the body to its final resting place. Those who knew her best said a few words and Maglor added his thoughts, speaking of her kindness, her sunny personality, and how she had made him feel at home since his arrival. Telieniel sang a song of the sea that Galathwen had always liked, her high, clear voice rising above the trees. A chill breeze blew, sending a skiff of leaves into the grave and Gaerion’s wife shivered and clung to her husband who clasped her as tightly to him.

In the end, when all the tears had been shed, the grave closed, the songs sung, the crowd drifted slowly away. Maglor noticed that Mithdor was nowhere to be seen and asked about him. Lebednel said he had gone hunting before dawn, trying to pick up the trail of the wolf. Silivor and Hinnith came up as they were speaking.

“Terrible business,” Silivor said. “People want assurances that this wolf will be killed, but more than that they want answers. Is there anything you can tell us that might help?” he asked Maglor.

“No, nothing,” Maglor replied. “I wish she had confided in me, but she didn’t.”

Silivor looked unconvinced. “If you think of anything, anything at all that may be useful, I hope you will bring it to the council at once. More lives might be in danger.”

“I fear that also. We must all take precautions until the wolf is caught. Anyone with pertinent information needs to share it,” Maglor said with equanimity.

Hinnith looked at him with sympathy. “I know what she meant to you, Daelir,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“Thank you, Hinnith.”

They departed and Maglor went back to fetch his bow. He could not sit idly by and do nothing with a killer wolf out in the woods. He went out and tried again to find the trail but there was no sign. He tried to remember everything Celegorm had taught him about a cold trail. Walk in an ever widening circle, look for places where a wolf might go for a meal or to dig a den, listen for the halt of birdsong or the movement of prey animals that can indicate a predator nearby. He stepped lightly over leaf and twig so as not to give his position away. He searched methodically for hours but no sign of the predator could he find. The birds continued their singing; the squirrels ran through the trees without a care. His frustration mounted as the sun dropped low and the first stars began to twinkle above.

The night sounds of insects and small, scuttling things filled his ears. A vole ran over his foot, hurrying into a fern to his left, an owl hooted in the branches overhead. Then he heard it, a soft, almost imperceptible scuff upon the leaves ahead. The full moon shone above, illuminating the night like day, when a wolf came trotting from the trees. It was one of the biggest he had ever seen, pale grey as a morning mist with a bushy, ragged coat.

Maglor’s heart sped up but a feeling of calm washed over him. Silently, as only an Elf could, he drew and aimed an arrow. The wolf turned, heading for the settlement at a brisk pace. Maglor cursed that he was not closer, but he couldn’t move without giving himself away. He considered not taking the shot but rather going back to the settlement. What if this was his only chance? If he could even wound the beast they could track it back to its lair. Making his decision, he loosed his arrow.

Unfortunately, his location was poor, his aim was slightly off, and the arrow whizzed past the wolf’s head, striking only its ear. The wolf howled in pain, then bolted at breakneck pace through the trees.

Cursing, Maglor ran after it, following the blood trail easily in the light of the moon. He wished Mithdor was with him for even though the trail was clear at first it became increasingly harder to follow as it neared the settlement.

He continued in the direction the wolf had gone, finding a few drops of blood here and there before coming out of the woods near Celebrior’s house. He searched the area but was stymied again. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he knocked on the cottage door.

“Who is it?” came a voice from within.

“It’s Daelir,” Maglor called.

The silversmith answered the door, knife in hand, looking past Maglor into the darkness.

“Come in, Daelir, quickly. I do not want the door open to the night.”

Maglor entered and saw Celebrior’s wife looking at him curiously.

“I saw the wolf in the woods tonight,” Maglor explained. “I shot at it but missed. I did manage to nick its ear though. A small wound, but perhaps that will be enough to drive it to new hunting grounds. It came in this direction so I thought you should be warned.”

“Thank you for letting us know, Daelir. We will keep the place locked up tight and I will sleep with my weapons near.”

“I must go. If you see Mithdor, please ask him to come by my place. I need to speak with him.”

“I will. Thank you again.”

Maglor nodded and left.

He kept a sharp eye as he left the cottage. The moon was high in the sky now, and everything was peaceful and calm, belying the events of the past couple of days. Maglor went to Mithdor’s cottage, desperate to talk to him. There was a light burning inside. Maglor looked in the window but the cottage was empty. Where would Mithdor be this time of night? If he was still stalking the wolf Maglor hoped he would have better luck.

He was on his way back to his cottage when a scream rent the night. He ran in the direction of the sound and came to Gaerion’s house where he found the door wide open and Gaerion dead on the floor, his throat savaged even as Galathwen’s had been. There was a long knife with a blade of true silver across the room, probably knocked from Gaerion’s hand. His wife was still screaming and cowering in a corner.

“Where is the wolf?” Maglor cried. “Which way did it go?”

Wild eyed, Gaerion’s wife pointed to the door but seemed incapable of speech, until Maglor started to leave. Then she shouted, hysterical, “Don’t leave me! Please!”

Maglor hesitated. If he stayed the wolf would get away, but she was so frantic he couldn’t walk out. He shut and barred the door and went to her, sitting beside her on the floor, holding her while she sobbed in his arms for nearly a half hour. When she was finally able to speak she said, “There was a thud at the door. Gaerion took up his knife and opened it. He said earlier if the wolf came for him he would kill it. But he wasn’t fast enough. The wolf was on him before he could strike. The knife flew from his hand when the wolf got him by the throat. Oh, Daelir! Why would it come for Gaerion? He was the kindest man I ever knew.”

“I don’t know,” Maglor said. “There has to be a connection, but I don’t see it. Did your husband know Galathwen, perhaps from long ago?”

“If he did he never mentioned it. Why would that matter?”

“Galathwen had a secret she wouldn’t tell me. I found a letter in her effects that I still have not figured out, but which seems to indicate a connection to the Fëanorians somehow.”

“That cursed lot?” she said with contempt. “Gaerion knew nothing about all that. He was a good man."

Her words cut Maglor like a knife but worse, they only deepened the mystery. All the old feelings of guilt and sorrow washed over him. He had cursed himself to wander the shores singing his laments but surely the others had found a measure of peace on the far side of the sea. He heard Finrod's voice from his dream, 'I could never go without you.' A sudden terrifying thought struck him of Finrod wandering houseless, refusing the call of Mandos, waiting for him to sail or die. That would be the cruelest fate of all.

With a heavy heart he helped Gaerion’s wife clean and wrap the body for burial. He gave her the knife and instructed her to bolt the door when he left and not stir until daylight, which she emphatically agreed to do. She thanked him for his kindness, tears welling in her eyes. Maglor gave her one last hug and took his leave.

Two deaths in as many days, Maglor thought, his mind in a whirl. He was angry with himself all over again for missing his shot at the wolf. How many more would die because of his carelessness before the creature was killed? He went back to his cottage, putting away his bow and quiver. The night was cool so he lit a fire before going to bed. He lay beneath the blanket watching the flames leap and dance, worrying the details over in his mind. The light of the moon was beginning to wane by the time he fell into a troubled sleep.

He awoke at morning light with a stale taste in his mouth and a pounding head from lack of a proper rest. A bit of Galathwen’s jam on the now stale bread served as breakfast. He waited as long as possible before setting out. Word was certain to have spread of Gaerion’s death and he was not looking forward to another funeral. Still, he had to go, Gaerion was the head of the community and perhaps Mithdor would be there this time. He was hoping to get a chance to talk to him about the hunt and wounding the wolf.

The dawn was cold and grey. A stiff wind blew hard from the north, forcing Maglor to pull his cloak tight around him. Autumn was truly over. Maglor thought again of leaving. If he had not stayed he would not be a party to the current tragedy, but now he was and he couldn’t just turn his back on a group of people who had been so kind to him.

He arrived at Gaerion’s house to find Hinnith digging a grave under the pear tree in front of the cottage. Gaerion’s wife was crying softly and wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. There was a knot of people around her talking about Gaerion and what the two of them had meant to them. With the shock of a second death, everyone was especially somber and spoke little. Celebrior and Hinnith made heartfelt speeches, but Mithdor, who Maglor spotted coming late, said nothing.

Afterward, Maglor approached him. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” he said. “May we go somewhere more private?”

Mithdor was wearing his hair in a loose ponytail instead of his customary braid. Maglor thought the look flattering. He pushed the thought away, wondering where it had come from. He did not know the man well; it was unseemly to be thinking such things, especially on the day of a funeral.

“I suppose,” Mithdor said noncommittally. “What do you want to discuss?”

Maglor thought that an odd question under the circumstances. “I heard you were hunting the wolf yesterday. I need to tell you what happened last night.”

Mithdor looked uncomfortable. “Very well, but I can’t stay long. I have other business to attend to.”

As they walked along in silence, Maglor wondered at his friend’s change in mood. Perhaps he was angry at himself for again failing to find and kill the wolf. If that was the case, Maglor could certainly understand. He felt the same.

When they entered Maglor’s house, he offered Mithdor a seat, which he accepted, and some tea, which he politely refused.

“You said you had something to tell me,” Mithdor said. There was a note of impatience in his voice.

“Yes, I was out hunting the wolf last night before it got to Gaerion. I didn’t have a clear shot but I hit the beast’s ear, wounding it. I tried to find you but you weren’t home. Lebednel told me earlier that you went looking for the wolf before dawn.”

“And so I did. I was out hunting most of the day and night but I found nothing. By the time I returned, the wolf had struck again.” Mithdor sounded almost defensive.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you, if you had seen it, and to tell you it was wounded. I had hoped it wouldn’t come back to the settlement but as soon as I shot it, the wolf headed straight for Gaerion’s house. What do you think we’re dealing with here?”

“What do you mean?” Mithdor looked at him suspiciously.

“This is no ordinary wolf, it seems to be targeting certain people. It passed by Celebrior’s house to attack Gaerion.” Maglor said. “Here, let me show you the letter I found in Galathwen’s house.”

He showed the letter to Mithdor who read it over and handed it back. “So, what does that prove?”

“Don’t you see? Galathwen had a secret she wouldn’t share and was killed. Gaerion was attacked and what do we really know about him. His wife said he had no connection to Galathwen but I wonder.”

Mithdor got to his feet and confronted Maglor. “You’re the one who doesn’t see,” he said, sounding angry. “Why don’t you just leave and continue your wandering ways. I know you were thinking of leaving before the snows fell. You need to go and it needs to be now.”

Maglor was shocked at Mithdor’s words. “You know something,” he said, astounded. “What is it? Tell me Mithdor. I have always considered you a friend.”

“You were wrong to do so. I have no friends. Just take my advice and go, go before sundown. It’s your only chance.”

He stood to leave but Maglor grabbed him by the arm. He had questions that needed answers and did not intend to let Mithdor go without getting them. Mithdor went to pull away and when he did, Maglor saw blood on his hair. Without thinking, concerned about his friend, he pushed the hair aside to reveal Mithdor’s wounded ear. The top part of it was severed and the scab had come loose, causing it to bleed anew. Mithdor clutched at the wound and pushed past him, running from the house while Maglor stood and watched him go, too stunned to give chase.

His mind reeled. Mithdor had the same wound as the wolf. Maglor remembered how Sauron had the power to transform himself into a wolf, and had surrounded himself with evil spirits in wolf form. Could Mithdor be one of these spirits? How then did he have the shape of a man? Maglor’s heart nearly burst at the thought that one such as Mithdor could have murdered his beloved Finrod. An anger he had not felt since the old days rose in him and he took up a knife and went after Mithdor. If he was such an evil creature, Maglor would make short work of him. He had at least two deaths to avenge, perhaps many more.

Maglor ran in the direction he had seen Mithdor go and caught a glimpse of him as he disappeared into the woods. Without hesitation, Maglor followed him under the eaves of the sun dappled forest. He saw Mithdor dodge around a tree ahead and picked up speed to catch up. Mithdor ran through the woods like he was born to it while Maglor struggled along behind, barely able to keep him in sight. With a start he realized where Mithdor was heading, into the part of the woods where he had seen the wolf last night.

Maglor took a shortcut, coming up behind the tree where he had taken his shot. He hid behind it, glancing out into the clearing. After a moment, he was rewarded when Mithdor came running through the woods, still holding his bleeding ear. He glanced behind him and when he didn’t see Maglor following, he slowed, leaning against a tree, panting.

When he had caught his breath, Mithdor looked around the clearing, a frown on his face. Suddenly Maglor heard a voice in his head. “You just couldn’t leave it, could you, Makalaurë?”

Maglor had not heard that name in too many long years to count. “How dare you taunt me, servant of Sauron,” he said, stepping from behind the tree with his knife at the ready. “I don’t know who or what you are but this must end now.”

Mithdor looked at him sadly. “Yes, it must. Please, leave before sundown. Save yourself.”

Maglor came warily closer, but Mithdor showed no sign of either fleeing or fighting. He sagged with a weariness Maglor often felt himself, the weight of years and memory.

“Why, Mithdor? Tell me why you killed those good people. Tell me why I was to be your next victim. Don’t you think I deserve answers before the end?”

“It is the end,” Mithdor said. “You were to be the last, but I can’t do it, Maglor. I thought when the time came I could release you from the years of pain and guilt, as I did with Galathwen and Gaerion, as I have done with all the remaining Exiles.”

Maglor narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about, demon? Exiles? Gaerion was a Sindar, married to a Green Elf. Galathwen was Telerin. Lies will not help you now.”

“How could you have been so close to Galathwen and not know?” Mithdor said. “How could you have lived in this community for over a year and not know Gaerion was no Sindar? Or have you blinded yourself to the truth before your eyes?”

“Since you seem to know me, you know I, of all people, would be the last to question others about their past. They never shared their stories with me. Galathwen was on the verge of doing so, and then you killed her.”

Mithdor gave him a haunted look. “You are not the only one in pain, Maglor. You are not the only one who suffered for the oath, who still bears the scars. Your friend Galathwen was once betrothed to a follower of Curufin. Even though she was half Telerin she took part at the kinslaying at Alqualondë. When her lover was killed by a Telerin seaman, she slew him in anger and sealed her fate, sharing in the Doom of Mandos.”

Maglor’s jaw dropped to hear this. “The letter I found in her effects. I thought the author’s name was familiar. So Galathwen was really Móriel?”

“Yes, she changed her name even as you did. One can hide the past but never escape it.”

“And Gaerion?” Maglor could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Why did he deserve to die?”

“Eglel’s father was a follower of Celegorm. Eglel, Gaerion’s real name, was but a youth when he took part in the sack of Menegroth. It was he and a companion who left Eluréd and Elurín to their fate in the woods.”

“But his wife. . .”

“Never knew,” Mithdor finished. “He ran away in his shame and, claiming to be a refugee of Menegroth, spent his life deep in the Greenwood, living with the Sindar and Silvan Elves. It was there he met and married his wife.”

“How did Galathwen and Gaerion know you were coming for them? They both seemed to know.”

“They were the last. I had stalked them for years. Both managed to elude me for they had heard of a wolf killing Exiles before I managed to track them down. How they both ended up here I don’t know, but I don’t think they knew of each other. The sheep were an unfortunate tip off. Ironically, they were killed by Hinnith’s dogs and not me at all.”

“But how did you transform back after you killed Galathwen? You met me in the woods.”

“After the blood lust subsides I become myself again.” Mithdor said. “It is a curse, Maglor, you do not understand how quickly it takes me, how I disappear until only the beast remains.”

“So you tracked both Galathwen and Gaerion here and took vengeance,” Maglor said in disgust. 

“No!” Mithdor said emphatically. “Not vengeance. I sought to give them a chance for redemption. I sought to bring them peace.”

“By sending them to Bannoth? Who are you to make that decision?” Maglor was so angry he could have ripped Mithdor apart with his bare hands.

“I did not make it. I have only suffered for it,” Mithdor said. “I did it all for you.”

Maglor remembered his dream. Finrod had said that to him. He was struck by a sudden revelation so overwhelming it took his breath away.

“Findaráto?” he said, his voice shaking. “Oh, no, my love, no!” His anger fled as Mithdor’s disguise fell away to reveal the only person he had ever, could ever, love. Maglor fell to his knees, dropping his knife, tears welling in his startled eyes. Finrod stood before him in all his golden glory, the only difference was his bicolored eyes, one grey as mist, the other Finrod’s brilliant blue. “I thought you were in Aman. I thought you were happy!”

“I could never go without you.” Responding to Maglor’s wondering look he added, “Yes, I know of your dream. I looked into your mind and saw your nightmare after Galathwen was killed, and I stepped in. I wanted you to know I was still with you, even though it is forbidden.”

“Forbidden?” It was more than Maglor could take in. He thought he must be wandering the paths of dreams even now.

“It is time you know everything,” Finrod said. “For that I must go back to the beginning. When I killed the werewolf that came for Beren I was wounded unto death, but I did not die. While I hovered between this world and Mandos, Námo appeared to me. He could not remove the curse of the werewolf, and could not admit me to his halls because of the evil enmeshed in my fëa. So he tasked me to bring the Exiles home. Only by fulfilling the Doom could the world at last be freed from the evil of Sauron and Morgoth, until the Dagor Dagorath cleanses this evil for all time. Only then could the evil within me finally be destroyed. I had no choice, Maglor. Now you are my last, and I finally feel the rebellion your father felt when pushed to his limit by the Valar. I came to Middle-earth for you and I will not leave without you.”

“And so you have been hunting the last of the Exiles upon these shores in the form of a wolf,” Maglor said, openly weeping now. “Oh, Finrod! I stayed because I imagined you happy in Aman. I despaired when I imagined you wandering houseless, refusing the call of Námo, but I never imagined this. How you must have suffered. It is unthinkable. If killing me will free you then you must do it. My life is nothing to me now. I have been living in pain far longer than I ever lived in peace. Take my life and save yours, and my soul will be healed at last.”

Finrod came and knelt before him. “Tonight is the last full moon of autumn. It has to be tonight. Please go, go before sundown. I cannot control the change. When the wolf takes me I can only fulfill my charge. I would rather die a thousand deaths than send you to Námo’s halls.” He raised his head and shouted at the pitiless heavens. “Do you hear me, Námo? My work is over. I have done all you asked but this I will not do!”

“No,” Maglor said flatly. “I will not allow you to suffer this curse because of me. You must do it, Finrod. You must finish what you started. Please, free us both. I will wait for you as long as it takes. Until Dagor Dagorath if need be. Trust that we will be together again and cleanse your soul of this evil.”

Finrod gave him a look of utter desolation mixed with inexpressible longing. He took Maglor in his arms and kissed him with a hopeful tenderness, as though asking permission. Maglor, without hesitation, returned it with heated intensity as if he would devour him. Being here like this with Finrod swept away all the pain, all the fear, from Maglor’s tortured life. To hold his lover again, in reality not a dream, to feel those strong arms around him, the beat of his noble heart, was all he had ever, would ever, long for. They lay together and made love in the glade, Maglor refusing to even consider it might be for the last time. This moment was theirs and theirs alone, pure and true. Maglor knew with certainty his time today with Finrod would sustain him through all the torments of Mandos to come.

Then, all too soon the moment was over and they lay naked and unashamed in each other’s arms until the sun began to wane. Finrod kissed him one last time then rose from the forest floor. That is when Maglor, horrified, saw the knife in Finrod’s hand.

“It is too late. I wish you had gone, Maglor for I cannot be the instrument of your doom. Eru and all the Powers forgive me.”

Finrod raised the knife to plunge it into his throat but he could not match Maglor’s speed. Maglor grabbed Finrod’s hand, trying to wrest the knife from him. Finrod had amazing strength, but Maglor was motivated by desperation. They fell to the ground, wrestling for the knife as the sun failed, and the full moon blazed forth.

The knife dropped from Finrod’s hand as it shrunk into a paw, shaggy grey fur sprouted from his body, his face elongated into a fierce muzzle full of razor sharp teeth. Now Maglor was struggling for his life as the wolf that was Finrod growled and snapped at his neck. There was nothing recognizable in the wolf’s red-eyed gaze.

Maglor fought with all his strength to keep those teeth from finding their mark, but then he realized it what he had been waiting for. He released the wolf’s throat and bared his own, at the same time grabbing the knife.

As the wolf sunk its teeth into his neck, Maglor plunged the knife into its throat. Their blood flowed and mingled on the carpet of oak leaves under them. The wolf transformed slowly back into Finrod and they gazed upon each other with love and gratitude as the light faded from their eyes. . .

Maglor felt weightless, like he had laid down a heavy burden he did not know he carried. He opened his eyes slowly, his only thought for Finrod. He expected to see the terrible visage of Námo frowning upon him but instead he found himself within the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, standing next to Finrod. They were both dressed in fine attire, Finrod in blue velvet with gold brocade, he in red velvet with silver. The Valar were in council and they were the subject under discussion.

Varda smiled at them benevolently, and Ulmo looked upon them with favor while the rest of the Valar sat in stony silence. Maglor reached for Finrod’s hand and they stood together, squaring their shoulders proudly, ready to face their judgment.

“Normally, you would both be in Mandos right now,” Manwë said, “but seeing your love and the sacrifice you were willing to make for each other has moved us to intervene. Námo has been convinced to embody you here before us that we might deliver our verdict directly.”

Maglor glanced at Námo then quickly looked away. The Vala was glaring and sullen. He wondered what it had taken for the others to convince him that he and Finrod deserved any sort of special consideration.

“We will accept the decision of the Valar,” Finrod said in a strong, clear voice. He squeezed Maglor’s hand reassuringly. Maglor was not as convinced as he of any positive outcome of all this, but was willing to let Finrod speak for them both.

“Our decision, almost unanimous,” he said with a glance at Námo, “is to consider your debts paid with your deaths. Your suffering has not gone unmarked, nor have your sacrifices. Ulmo, having heard Maglor's lamentations on the shores of the sea, spoke quite eloquently on his behalf. Finrod, the wisest and noblest of the Noldor, has cleansed his fëa and kept his honor despite the curse of Sauron. You both may go now with our blessing.”

Maglor and Finrod embraced with full hearts and many tears. Maglor looked into Finrod’s beautiful blue eyes, the curse of the wolf gone forever.


End file.
